


in battles won, lost in war

by leeslijst



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, misunderstandings and misconceptions, why talk things out when you can glower at each other from a distance instead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-10-22 11:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17661746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leeslijst/pseuds/leeslijst
Summary: It would be an understatement to say they dislike each other. Dorian would laugh if it wasn't such a cliché.Or; Dorian and the Inquisitor don't get along. Unfortunately the problems of Thedas refuse to wait for them to sort out their differences.





	1. jus ad bellum

It would be an understatement to say they dislike each other. Every single conversation leaves Dorian more and more infuriated with the man. But then he is quite certain that the newly appointed Inquisitor cannot stand the sight of him either. That is, if the way the Herald’s eyebrows draw into a frown everytime he spots Dorian is anything to go by. Of course, the Inquisitor is always quick to school his features back into a look of bored politeness. Dorian has yet to decide whether the Inquisitor’s look of disgust or blankness annoys him more. Or the way the Inquisitor stomps off, shoulders drawn into a line of frustration after each of their handful of conversations. Either way, Dorian cannot be blamed for thinking the man is absolutely tedious. So it’s all _fine_. Really.

Besides, it is not his fault that the Inquisitor only seems to come talk to him in order to start yet another argument five seconds into every conversation. Nor is it Dorian’s fault that he retaliates the verbal attacks against his homeland.

“You claim to be disgusted by slavery and yet you are complicit, _no_ , you actively enforce a system which imprisons and exploits people simply because they are mages” Dorian hisses after the umpteenth dig at Tevinter. He knows he should not let the Inquisitor’s words get to him, lest he gets kicked out of the Inquisition, but it is too late already because the Inquisitor’s eyes flash in indignation. Though apart from the slight narrowing of his eyes and crossing of arms, the Inquisitor does not respond. The calm facade stays in place.

Dorian would not be Dorian, however, if he did not like the feeling of losing an argument. He changes tack and goes for a low blow this time, trying to goad the Inquisitor into a reaction. “I have heard the rumours you know,” the Inquisitor steps closer, menacing, daring Dorian to finish his sentence. Naturally, there is only one way to respond to this silent warning. Thus, Dorian draws in a breath, tilts his head just _so_ and pulls his lips into a cocky grin. This is a game he is familiar with after all.  

“The mages you faced previously may have quivered in their little boots at that frown of yours, but you see in Tevinter we do not to fear templars. Now, shall we discuss what I heard in Redcliffe about your time in the Circle?”

The Inquisitor cuts him off before he can finish that particular train of thought. A strong calloused hand quickly grabs hold of his upper arm, just forceful enough to slightly hurt. The Inquisitor’s calm facade is showing cracks, pale blue eyes boring into Dorian’s grey ones. Dorian stands his ground, does not pull away his arm but instead opts to raise an eyebrow. Mentally, however, he braces himself for what is to come.

In Tevinter he would find his wine tampered with on the morrow, but the South has always been more primitive and barbaric. Though not quite as much as Fereldans, the Free Marchers are known to favour direct, head on approaches. But instead of being thrown down the stairs as Dorian almost would have expected, the hand that had been attempting  squeeze his arm into a mush withdraws as quickly as it had found itself there. The Inquisitor steps back, the blank look of polite boredness back in place — though he does look slightly paler and more drawn than before.

Still, when the Inquisitor does speak it is clear that another tally has just been added to his mental list on why (Tevinter) mages should not be trusted. “You would do well to remember that I did not force you to join the Inquisition. You yourself chose to come here, uninvited I might add, and are free to leave whenever you should wish to, _Pavus_.” His last name is spat out with disgust. The Inquisitor gives a sharp nod and turns on his heels, depriving Dorian of the opportunity to respond. Shouting at the man’s back would be undignified after all.

Their constant clashes should not be surprising, in fact, it was rather to be expected when Dorian decided to join the Inquisition. He walked into this with his eyes wide open. It would be funny if the whole situation wasn’t such a cliché.

Templars and mages do not get along. The shelf behind Dorian alone contains no less than 21 books, ranging from fact to fiction, on this very subject. People from Tevinter and the South do not get along either. The bookcase to his left stores 38 books depicting the wars and conflicts between the regions. Of course, there are also books entirely devoted to the animosity between Tevinter mages and Southern Templars, and Dorian has yet to count the books outside of his alcove.

He is not sure why he had ever expected to feel welcomed by an organisation which has a barbaric southern templar as its figurehead. He should have known better. Not a day has gone by where the weaponsmith has not spat at his boots, where passersby have not turned up their noses at him, or where a laundry-girl did not shriek at the sight of him. It is not a new experience for Dorian, but he does find it terribly tiring to have to deal with day in day out.

There are also the occasional run-ins with those who are downright hostile. Whose faces — much like the Inquisitor’s frowns — clearly betray what they think of him. That Dorian must be, and could only ever be, a spy or an assassin, a maleficar out to corrupt the Inquisition from within. No matter that he despises blood magic and that he is far too noticeable to make an effective spy or assassin. Fortunately, Dorian generally only has to deal with such individuals once. Most realise quickly enough that Dorian will not rise to their bait and posturing.

Although Dorian has been a pariah in Tevinter for many years, it has been a long time ago since he felt quite as lonely as here in the South. In Tevinter he at least had Felix, Maevaris, and - up to a certain point - Alexius. Dorian suddenly realises that he is homesick and it feels like a kick to chest. Despite all its flaws he misses Tevinter.

It is terribly tempting to pack his bag, and turn his back on the Inquisition. It has been nearly two months since Dorian had come running to the gates of Haven with Corypheus and the ancient darkspawn’s mage army hot on his heels. He had tried to warn the Herald of the impending danger but it had been too late. Haven was turned into ruins and ashes in a matter of hours. The subsequent perilous journey through the biting and deadly cold of the Frostback Mountains Dorian would rather forget. The Inquisition has left its mark on him, but Dorian has yet to leave a mark on the Inquisition. If he left it would be like he was never part of this organisation at all.

And whilst much has happened since Dorian first set foot in Skyhold, his own position at the Inquisition has remained largely unchanged. He had felt cautiously hopeful back then, not immune to the inspiring image the Herald had presented as he was named Inquisitor. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months the hope that he would find his place amongst the Inquisition had gradually been extinguished. Dorian was not blind to the distrust the majority of the Inquisition had for him. He does not get invited to the Inquisitor’s various expeditions so he throws himself into his research on Corypheus, the breach and the mark. Which seems to be something they have no problem with, occasionally books to aid his research are even left for him on the little table in his alcove.

  

A couple weeks later Dorian finds himself standing next to the Champion of Kirkwall on Skyhold’s ramparts. Together they observe the refugees and people hoping to join the Inquisition being welcomed by a few Inquisition soldiers. Below a group of humans and elves with staves strapped to their backs and mud and blood caked to their clothes gratefully accept some food and a blanket. It is not the first group to come to Skyhold in the recent days. The fortress seems to get busier by the day and the ranks of the Inquisition’s forces are growing steadily. Many arrive with dirtied and sunburnt faces. Others arrive in comfort with expensive jewellery blinking brightly in the sun.

Mages, templars, rich, poor, old, young, they all bring tales of the Inquisitor’s acts of bravery and even kindness. Some having experienced it first hand whilst others have heard of it through word of mouth, undoubtedly in no small part thanks to the effective propaganda machine of the Spymaster and ambassadeur. All who arrive at Skyhold, no matter how weary, stare up at the fortress’ impressive towers whilst hope shines in their eyes.

It seems slightly ironic to Dorian that the Southern mages below (and all the mages who preceded them) seek their safety at a templar’s organisation. That even as fighting between rebel mages and templars remains rampant in large swaths of territory they choose to turn to an organisation which allied itself with those whom’s grasp they had fled from no more than a few months ago. Dorian had not expected much from the Southern mages but this blind stupidity is something else entirely. He refuses to consider what it says about himself that he too has willingly found himself within the Inquisition’s hold.

Admittedly, this is a better option than falling into the cruel grasp of the Venatori. If only the people from his homeland weren’t so eager to spread their madness. Tevinter is not beyond hope, he knows this, but the Venatori can make it difficult to also actually believe it. Plus, their actions cannot be improving the Inquisitor’s already low opinion of Tevinter mages.

He has not seen the Herald much since Dorian alluded to his time in the circle. Has only spotted him a handful of times walking to and from the Spymaster’s office. Dorian knows the man had travelled to the Western Approach and brought Hawke and Alistair back with him. Albeit only because of the wild stories Hawke had told upon their return. Dorian turns to Hawke and says: “if that story with the Inquisitor and the Gurn you told the other night is true, I’m truly surprised that the two of you haven’t killed each other on one of those sand dunes there.”

Hawke looks back at Dorian and smiles “well at the time we were too busy running for our lives, so even if he had wished to strangle me it would not have been a very strategic decision.”

“But afterwards, once you were all hiding in that ruin, there would have been plenty of opportunity.”

The Champion hums, “It would have been a waste, he is not bad to look at and quite a skilled fighter you know. And I can be rather charming when I wish to be, he had no choice but to forgive me for trying to ride the stupid thing.” at Dorian’s incredulous look Hawke adds “eh, and he has witnessed first hand how useful I can be in battle. No happy ending could come from us trying to kill each other, it would be bad for morale. As I said not strategic.”

“I suppose I'll have to take your word for it.” Dorian sighs, “honestly, sometimes I feel as if I will never get to step outside of Skyhold’s walls again.”

Dorian notices Hawke’s gaze becoming thoughtful, can feel her golden eyes assessing him. He knows that the other mage hides a shrewdness and a sharp intelligence behind her jokes and sarcasm. “Has all that dust from those books I always see you hunched over dulled your brain? You could just ask to join Trevelyan on one of his next trips. Or maybe request to be posted at one of the outposts for a while. Though I would strongly advise against going to the Western Approach, nothing but darkspawn, Venatori and sand there.”

Hawke pushes off the wall and clasps Dorian on the shoulder as she steps away. “Seriously Dorian, just ask him or one of his advisors. Someone will budge eventually. After all, you look much nicer when your moustache isn’t all sad like it is now.” With that Hawke is gone, no doubt on her way to pester Cassandra, leaving Dorian to mull over her surprisingly sage advice. His hand he leaves firmly planted on the wall, lest the now upcoming urge to touch his moustache wins over.

 


	2. Si vis pacem, para bellum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking such a long time before posting this second chapter, life just gets in the way sometimes. Thank you for reading though, I hope you enjoy it!

Before Dorian left Tevinter, he and Maeveris had looked into possible links between a number of men and women who moved in the upper echelons of Tevinter society and the Venatori. Together they had painstakingly gone through countless of letters, transcripts and other documents trying to find proof of a connection. The names belonging to anyone suspected of being Venatori would be added to a list which was kept under lock and key in Maevaris’ estate. They would talk to the friends, family, servants and slaves of those put on the list in order to glean more information about the suspected Venatori. After all, it is easier to beat someone if you know what makes them tick. Sometimes Dorian would be able to strike a name off the list, but more often than not, it would just lead them to other possible Venatori. After Dorian left Tevinter Maevaris sent him letters. Sometimes, in between the lines asking after his well being and the latest news on Tevinter politics, she would write _identified another one_ and _you were right not like him, he’s dead now._

A few weeks after Dorian arrived at Skyhold Maevaris had sent him a nondescript parcel containing a bundle of documents with a note attached to it saying _Three birds known to you recently migrated south. Though I am glad they no longer defecate in my garden, you might want to stop them from getting their claws into yours. M.T._

Now Dorian sits on the floor of his room, the documents and a map of Thedas spread out before him. He is sure that two of his old acquaintances, Lavinia and Magister Aetius, are camping out somewhere in the Hinterlands. The documents also point to Aurelianus running around somewhere in the Exalted Plains. Unfortunately, the documents before him are unable to pinpoint the exact locations of the Venatori camps. Dorian drags a frustrated hand through his hair, he had hoped to put all the information to the Inquisitor, the camp locations, the number of Venatori at each location, who takes a shit when. The basic stuff. Dorian imagines how the Inquisitor would have been reluctantly impressed. The man’s usual mask of boredom would have shown cracks, in the end the Inquisitor would probably have angrily stomped off. It would have been a win for Dorian.

Instead Dorian is going to have to hand over his incomplete leads. He’d honestly prefer not taking the information directly to the Inquisitor, would rather avoid the confrontation it will inevitably result in. They haven’t even really spoken since that day in Dorian’s alcove, when the man practically implied that Dorian is an uninvited and unwelcome addition to the Inquisition. However, taking the information to one of the advisors instead does not feel like the appropriate course of action either. Handing the information to a random Inquisition member is definitely not an option. Dorian leans back against the side of his bed, head falling back as his eyes follow dust particles that slowly drift to the ground, claimed by gravity.

After a while he carefully rolls up the map and documents in front of him and gathers them together. Documents in hand Dorian walks along Skyhold’s ramparts, then through the main hall past two gossiping nobles and up to the door leading to the Inquisitor’s quarters. A burly Inquisition soldier guards the door who frowns when Dorian stands before him and says, “I need to speak to the Inquisitor, is he in?”

The guard’s only response is to push the door open and step aside, allowing Dorian to enter. They must have a lot of confidence in the Herald’s ability to defend himself, because entering the man’s quarters seems frightfully easy for any person wishing to do him harm. As Dorian trudges up the stairs he spots a Templar banner hanging on the stairwell wall and two ravens fighting on the wooden scaffolding on the other side of the stairwell. Both sights make him wrinkle his nose.

Far too soon Dorian finds himself standing in front of the final door. Breathes in deeply to calm the sudden nervous flutter in his stomach. A feeling strangely reminiscent of a time when he had been called to the First Enchanter’s office after setting fire to a classmate in a duel settles over him. Dorian’s father had looked so disappointed when he had learned of Dorian expulsion from the Circle of Carastes. Yet there had also been a glimmer of pride in his father’s eyes, as Dorian had executed a combination of spells during the duel far beyond the abilities of any other nine-year-old. Dorian squares his shoulders, firmly knocks on the door twice, opens it without waiting for a reply and steps inside the room – before he can change his mind and turn around again.

 

Dorian has never been inside the Inquisitor’s chambers before, he looks around curiously as he climbs the final stairs. Contrary to what Dorian would almost have expected in the more bitter parts of his mind, the room does not hide malformed animal carcasses and crying babies. Instead Dorian stands in the middle of what is likely the most beautiful and comfortable room in Skyhold. The Inquisitor sits at a mahogany desk in the corner of the room, surrounded by books and other scraps of paper. The sound of a pen scratching furiously on paper clashes with the peaceful light which softly filters through the numerous windows and the fire crackling merrily in the fireplace. The Inquisitor has not looked up at Dorian’s entrance, and still remains hunched over his papers, glowering as if the papers have personally offended him. Thus, Dorian steps further into the room and closer to the desk, softly clearing his throat to attract the other man’s attention.

Startled the Inquisitor looks up, surprise registering in blue eyes that widen for a second at the sight of Dorian in his room before his face goes back to that blank and emotionless expression again. “Pavus, is there something I can do for you?” the Inquisitor asks with a fake smile, posture straightening.

Dorian sits down in the chair facing the Inquisitor. “Actually, I believe there is something we can do for each other. Now that you’ve been in charge for a while, there’s something I thought I’d bring up,” Dorian says as he places the documents on the desk before him. The rolled-up map he keeps on his lap.

The Inquisitor does not move to take documents placed in front of him. Instead his eyes remain on Dorian, wary, right hand clenching the armrest in a white-knuckled grip. Three rings decorate the man’s fingers, one depicting the Trevelyan coat of arms, the other the Inquisition emblem, and the last ring, unsurprisingly, bears the Templar Order’s flaming sword. Because _of course_ the man still wears Templar rings. Dorian sighs, “before I came I South I started looking into prominent figures in Tevinter politics and society who might possibly be linked to the Venatori. You of course know that there are Venatori mages out there, lurking in the wilderness. After all, you cannot swing a dead cat without hitting one of Corypheus’s minions, but,” here Dorian pauses, eyes looking away from the Inquisitor to focus on the white mountaintops that are visible through the open balcony doors. “These particular Venatori have additional significance to myself. For one, I know them personally.”

The Inquisitor exhales harshly, eyes suddenly narrowing, mouth set in a hard line. “They are your friends?”

Dorian lets out a short, humourless laugh, only the Inquisitor would come up with such a ridiculous notion. “Friends, sure, I would call them friends, except that would imply I didn’t want them dead.” A beat, as he shoots the Inquisitor a venomous look. “Which I do.”

The Inquisitor merely raises an eyebrow before he sits forward and starts flipping through the documents Dorian had put on his desk. The Herald’s free hand moves to rub at the scar running along the right side of his jaw. Dorian is content to wait, as it provides the perfect opportunity to scrutinise the man sitting opposite him. A slight stubble dusts the Inquisitor’s chiseled jaw, there are dark circles under his eyes and his hair looks slightly dishevelled. The mark occasionally flares up, the Inquisitor’s jaw clenches each time it does. The mark must still hurt then, or cause discomfort at the very least. There is a weariness to the Inquisitor that Dorian has not seen since Haven’s destruction, when the Herald had stood before a singing Inquisition army somewhere amongst the Frostback Mountains’ treeless masses of rocks and ice. The Inquisitor must sense Dorian’s scrutiny as he slightly shifts in his chair and looks up to meet Dorian’s eyes again. “What else can you tell me about them?”

Thus, Dorian explains how Aurelianus had also attended the Circle of Minrathous, but only by virtue of his parents’ wealth and connections, as the man always had little talent and even less intelligence. He tells of Magister Aetius who would often throw parties where the wine flowed freely and how the man would witness a multitude of assassination at his parties with glee sparkling in his eyes. Finally, he describes Lavinia and how her cunning had enabled her to regain her family’s social status which had plummeted after a _faux pas_ made by her father in front of the Archon when she was still a girl. Contrary to Dorian’s expectations the Inquisitor proves to be an attentive listener. He doesn’t interrupt Dorian except to occasionally ask for clarifications with questions that are surprisingly intelligent. Though the Inquisitor does scowl when Dorian recounts Aurelianus’ increasing use of blood magic and Lavinia’s cruel behaviour to soporati merchants and her own slaves.

Dorian sets the map down on the desk and unrolls it with a flourish. “I also happen to have an idea of where they might be,” he says, pointing to the circled areas on the map. “I thought we could put our heads together and track them down.

The Inquisitor hums noncommittally. “And when we inevitably find them, what then?”

“I expect they will sneer something at you in Tevene, and you’ll be forced to kill them. Which makes everyone happy. You for eliminating a potential threat, me for eliminating men and women too stupid and shortsighted to be permitted continued breath. They will be less happy,” Dorian shrugs, “but who cares about them?”

The Inquisitor leans back in his chair, posture relaxed, yet his eyes remain decidedly fixed on Dorian, calculating and assessing. “Who indeed.”

It is clear that the conversation - likely the longest they’ve had without it turning into an argument - is over. The Inquisitor now possesses all Dorian’s leads and relevant information. It’s up to the Inquisitor to decide whether he wants to pull on the threads Dorian has handed him. Dorian stands up slowly, feigning nonchalance, and says, “up to you, my lord Inquisitor.”

The Inquisitor nods once and Dorian turns around to walk away. Dorian hears the other man sigh heavily just as Dorian slips out of the room. When the door falls closed behind him, Dorian sighs as well. The ravens, still there where Dorian last saw them, squawk loudly at him in response. Dorian shoots the pesky birds an irritated look and sets out to find Varric for a game of wicked grace.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] You might have recognised some of Dorian's dialogue from his letter in the war table operation "Dorian's Request". 
> 
> [2] According to Dragon Age Wiki Dorian studied at the Circle at Carastes, but was expelled at the age of nine after a duel with another magister's son left the other boy injured. The Circle of Carastes is apparently one of the most prestigious academies of magi in the eastern Imperium. The more you know.
> 
> Feedback is always welcome!


End file.
